Rebels and Kings
by electric violinist
Summary: Stiles is a servant to an arrogant Jackson, travelling to a business meeting, when their carriage is stopped by bandits, including a handsome man called Derek.
1. Chapter 1

**AN: I decided recently that I really should finish some of my unfinished fics. Unfortunately, this plot bunny hit. I'm still writing Be Mine, but I thought I'd put this out there and see what you guys think. If you enjoy it, please let me know.**

 **So, it's set in an alternate universe in past times (no particular historical time or place). The rest of it you can find out from reading.**

The carriage rattled around them. Stiles had heard the shouts before Jackson did. He'd noticed the sound of more hooves a few minutes before, but had dared to believe it was nothing. But it was at the sound of the shouting that had made Jackson start panicking.

"Bandits!" he'd shouted.

Stiles had already figured that out by that point. He'd just decided it was better not to let Jackson panic. Because Jackson was a dick when he panicked. Well, Jackson was a dick most of the time, but when he was upset, Stiles preferred to be a few hundred miles away and wearing earplugs. Not stuck in a stupid carriage with him.

"I told you we should have ridden!" Jackson shouted, "There's no way we can out ride them in this box!"

"Yeah, because that was my choice," said Stiles, "Had nothing to do with your Dad trying to impress his customers."

"Shut up, Stilinski! We're being attacked by fucking bandits!"

"Yeah, I got that, actually, but thanks for the heads up."

"You're gone when we get back, Stilinski!" Jackson shouted, "You'll be out without a reference."

Stiles nodded, accepting that straight away. As a master, Jackson was a bigger dickhead than as an acquaintance. If Jackson sent Stiles home in disgrace, Stiles would be relieved.

"They're overtaking us!" Jackson shouted.

Stiles nodded. "It's OK," he said, "They'll probably just ransom you back to your dad. You're worth more alive than dead."

Jackson rolled his eyes, "Do you know nothing, Stilinski? God, you're such an idiot!"

"Yeah, and you're practically a philosopher…."

"Do you know where we are, dickhead?" Jackson growled.

That pissed Stiles off a bit more. "I…"

But Jackson didn't let him finish. "These are the Marshlands! They'll know about my father! They think they're freedom fighters! They hate everyone who can call themselves a gentleman!"

Stiles bit his lip on his retort; that Jackson was as far from being a gentleman as it was possible to be, but he knew the stories. There were bandits that hated the rich above all else.

"Swap clothes with me!"

Stiles scrunched up his nose.

"Er, no," he said.

"Swap clothes, asswipe!" Jackson shouted. "They won't bother with a commoner like you."

"Yeah, that does nothing to persuade me to get my clothes off," said Stiles.

"Get your fucking clothes off, Stilinski! You're going to be me!"

"Why?" Stiles groaned.

"Because when they see me in those rags you call clothes, they'll let me go. They don't care about peasants and servants!"

Stiles decided now wasn't the time to say that peasants and servants were very different in the eyes of peasants and servants and instead said "Do you seriously think that I'm just gonna go with this plan?"

"Stiles!" Jackson moaned, now down to his perfectly shaped torso, "They'll just slap you around a bit, then you can tell them who you really are and they'll forget about you. They'd kill me! Or demand some impossible ransom from my dad! They'll see that yours has nothing worth taking and let you go. Get over yourself!"

"But…"

"Look, jackass," said Jackson, "Take your clothes off before I hold you down and rip them off."

Stiles glared, but knew he was no match for Jackson in a physical fight. He began undressing, "If I get killed by bandits while pretending to be you, you better treat my Dad like he's fucking royalty for the rest of his days, or so help me God, I will be back to haunt you forever!"

"Yeah, yeah," said Jackson, shoving his nice shirt at Stiles, even as the carriage came to a lurching halt, "if you die, your dad will be rich. He'd probably think that was the best of all worlds. No useless halfwit son, and lots of money. More than he ever dreamed."

Stiles seriously considered taking his own shirt back, but Jackson had grabbed it already and was pulling it over his own head. Stiles made a rude gesture in his direction as he pulled Jackson's nice short over his head.

'Pants too, idiot!' Jackson snapped shoving his own down. Stiles held in a smirk at the thought of what any bandit would think if they can in now. But he obeyed his master, and dutifully handed over his pants.

"Mr Whittemore?" called a voice from the carriage door.

Stiles stared at Jackson. Jackson stared right back.

"That's you, dickwad," he hissed.

"Uh... Just a second," said Stiles to the door as he pulled Jackson's pants on. They were stupidly soft and ill fitting, and made Stiles want to writhe in discomfort.

"I'm afraid I must demand that you exit the carriage, Mr Whittemore," said the voice, "we have urgent business with you."

Stiles shivered, "Just a sec!" He shouted again, and whispered "what the fuck am I supposed to do?!"

Jackson smoothed a hand through his hair, "just be your usual smart arse self," he sneered, "You're a crap servant, so this might just work."

Stiles gave Jackson his least servant-like expression, "You're a crapper servant!"

Jackson pulled the ragged sleeves of Stiles' shirt straighter on his wrist. "Just because you're a walking rag and bone wagon doesn't mean all servants look like they've walked through a bunch of hedges."

"Yeah, well, mostly they can manage a tiny shred of humility, too," said Stiles. Because no one could mistake Jackson's arrogance for a servant's obedience.

"Coming from the most impudent servant I've ever met!"

"It's called charm, dickhead, you wouldn't know anything about that!"

Jackson's hand was about an inch from smacking him when the door opened, and both young men's gazes flew to where a young black man was looking at them with ease and confidence.

"Mr Whittemore," said the man, addressing both of them, "His most gracious majesty would crave a word with you."

Jackson snorted. Stiles didn't. He just rolled his eyes. These guys weren't just bandits, then. But he was pretty confident they hadn't been stopped by the actual king.

"Why do you laugh?" asked the man, voice still calm and confident, though maybe now more cold than before.

"King!" Jackson repeated, "You work for the Hale family, I take it?"

"Yes, Sir," replied the man, "the rightful royal family."

Jackson made a derisive sound at that, and Stiles decided the massively insulting tone he was using needed to stop before they both became too annoying to ransom and too much fun to kill.

"My servant means no disrespect," he said, doing his best Jackson impression, aiming for a drawl and a casual stance, "he is merely an ignorant boy, brought up on the propaganda of our home town and without the grace to show good manners to people who can _kill him very easil_ y."

The last words were directed at Jackson alone, but he was just glaring nastily at Stiles, no doubt burning at the 'ignorant' comment.

Stiles couldn't let himself worry about that right now. "We shall come to, er… his majesty," he said, aiming for a gracious half bow, probably looking slightly drunk.

The black man raised his eyebrows at him, and Stiles got the feeling he was missing out on something, but he returned the slight bow, and stood back to allow them out of the carriage.

Jackson looked at Stiles expectantly, as though he were expecting Stiles to go check the steps. Stiles rolled his eyes, and shook the expensive shirt he was wearing. Jackson glowered again, but climbed out of the carriage, putting a hand out offensively at Stiles. Stiles ignored the hand and climbed out too.

"This way," said the man, politely, indicating the road, where Stiles could see that a small semi-circle of riders had gathered. Their own coachmen were nowhere to be seen, and Stiles did not consider that a good sign.

The riders were watching them. Stiles noticed they'd no attempt to hide their faces. That was probably not a good sign either. He tried not to let his fear show.

"Mr Whittemore, I presume," greeted a man at the centre. He was one of the older members of the group, definitely over thirty but otherwise hard to place. He looked strong, capable and in charge. Stiles had to stare a good moment before he realised he was expected to speak. He unused to being expected to speak. Usually he was speaking when he was expected to be quiet.

"Uh, yeah," he said, "That's me. Whittemore. Totally my name."

The leader of the rebels smiled, and made quick eye contact with the man on his right. Stiles tried to pretend he hadn't noticed that that guy was beautiful. "And do you know who I am, Mr Whittemore?"

"Uh…" said Stiles, looking at Jackson, knowing he'd said something on the carriage. Was he supposed to know who this guy was? "I'm guessing some sort of well-spoken bandit or something? Based on the whole, well-spokenness and bandit-like activity."

The leader smirked. The guy next to him frowned. Jackson mumbled "Idiot."

The leader turned to Jackson, "And who is your friend?" he asked.

Jackson flinched at the wording. Stiles smirked. "Uh, not so much a friend. More a hapless fool I've taken to looking after. Funny story actually, I found him on a street corner, selling his wares for a few pennies. I couldn't let him stay there, a guy like him would starve before someone wanted a bit."

Because right now, he would take small pleasures where he could. Like insulting Jackson while Jackson couldn't fight back was something like eating honey while waiting for a bear to maul him.

The leader of the rebels laughed, "That's quite a tale. I'd heard you were quite the genteel young man. I'm surprised to hear such course words from you."

"Uh, yeah," said Stiles, embarrassed, "I like to let people think that, but I'm secretly quite a dickhead." Except that didn't work. If he was now insulting himself as Jackson, he'd just suggested he himself had been an out of work rent boy. He did his best to ignore it. It was hard being witty under so much pressure, "So, um, who did you say you were?"

The leader gave another smirk to his friend, and said, "I, young Mr Whittemore, am Peter Hale, son eldest son of the Hale dynasty, and rightful King of this land."

"Oh," said Stiles. Because he assumed he was meant to say something.

"Oh?" said the woman on Peter Hale's left, "That's all you have to say?"

"Er…" said Stiles, "I don't… er… your majesty?"

The woman scowled, but Peter Hale merely shook his head. "It matters not. You are our guest, Mr Whittemore. I'm afraid I must keep you prisoner and demand ransom from your father, it is a sad necessity that we must raise funds to restore us to the throne, but do not fear, your stay shall be comfortable."

"Oh," said Stiles, not sure if he believed the words, "Uh, thanks? Your majesty?"

Jackson rolled his eyes, "Seriously?" he hissed at Stiles.

"As for your servant," said Peter Hale with a smirk. "He is a handsome enough boy, but we have not the food to spare. He will fetch no ransom as a servant. Let any who want their way with him, take him now, then we'll hang him."

"What?" Jackson shouted.

"I'm afraid it's necessary. Funds are low. My soldiers are missing the young flesh available in the cities since our lands were invaded, and I cannot afford to keep useless people. Who wants him? Or shall we just set the scaffold now."

There were a few laughs from the men, as Jackson shouted, "You… you savages!"

Stiles could just stay quiet. He didn't have to watch. Jackson had done plenty of horrid things in his life. He was a bully, and no doubt, would take over his father's business and become an even bigger bully, with more people's livelihoods in his hands. He would not be missed by anyone except his mother, and that was only an assumption on Stiles' part. He could just stand back, wait until he could go home, and then claim he had no power to do anything. He most definitely didn't have to die in the place of Jackson world's-most-dickish-bastard Whittemore. He did not.

A soldier came forward and took Jackson's arm. Jackson punched him, and started, unsurprisingly, shouting loudly that Stiles was the servant, that he was Jackson Whittemore. He basically started screaming it.

"Come now, servant, it will be quick," said Peter Hale.

"Oh, fuck," whispered Stiles. Because he was an idiot, but not actually evil. "Stop!" he said, "That's not my servant. I mean, I'm not… I mean… fuck!" He was going to die for Jackson fuckhead Whittemore, "I mean, I'm Stiles, the servant. He's the dickhead Jackson. Fuck!"

"Oh?" said Peter Hale.

"Yes," said Stiles, wishing he could have been born without a conscious. Like Jackson, "He's Jackson Whittemore."

It took him a second to think about running, but by that time he was pretty much surrounded by foot soldiers who seem to have come from nowhere. "Fuck!" he repeated.

Peter Hale smirked once more at his companion, "Bring him here," he told the soldier.

Stiles' arm was taken none too gently and he was pulled forwards towards the man who called himself King.

"What is your name boy?" said Peter Hale.

"Stiles," Stiles replied, seeing no reason to die with a lie on his lips.

"Well, Stiles, how do you feel right now?" Peter Hale asked, which Stiles thought was particularly morbid of him.

"Pretty shitty, actually," he replied, honestly.

"Descriptive," said Peter Hale, "I believe you have caused some strife in my ranks."

"Oh, whoop de doo," said Stiles.

"It seems that Erica now owes Boyd a series of clean up duties. And my nephew here owes me, what was it we agreed Derek?"

The handsome man beside Peter muttered something far too quiet for Stiles to hear.

"Ah, yes, a performance of the national anthem wearing women's clothes. I look forward to it."

"Great," said Stiles, "You know, you don't have to kill me for me not to cost anything. You can just let me go."

It was a lame hope, but Stiles had to go for it.

"Alas, our situation is still a closely guarded secret," said Peter, "Letting you go would be too big a risk to the security of myself and my followers."

"Yeah, but I'm totally lost right now," said Stiles, "I didn't even pay attention when they were telling us the destination, let alone the route. I'll just wander in the woods for a while, then whether I get home or not doesn't matter, because I won't know where I came from."

"Nice try," said Peter, "But no. You and your master will accompany us now."

Stiles didn't answer. He hadn't failed to notice the slight change in plan, but he most definitely didn't want to question it.

"Boyd, Isaac, please secure our guests. We will return to camp to create our ransom demand."

He turned his horse, forcing Stiles to stumble back out of the way. A young man with fair hair took his arm and led him to a horse. Stiles clambered up clumsily but quickly, in case anyone decided he needed to ride in a more humiliating way. The blond guy climbed onto his own horse beside him, and said "Hands."

"Hands?" said Stiles, "Yeah, I've got hands, thanks." He noticed the handsome man, the one Peter had called Derek, was watching from a small distance, presumably supervising the securing of the prisoners.

The blond guy rolled his eyes, "Give me your hands, I need to bind them."

"But…!" Stiles began to protest, but quickly gave up. He sighed, but pushed his hands out towards the blond guy, who promptly wrapped them in rope. It wasn't tight, but it was effective.

"And I need to tie this around your eyes," said the blond guy.

Stiles groaned, looking at the thick black cloth, "How am I supposed to steer the horse?"

"I'll guide it," said the blond guy. "You're getting a better deal than your master."

Stiles turned, curiously, and found that Jackson hadn't climbed onto his horse fast enough, and was bent over it, hands tied behind his back, feet tied together and a bag on his head. If the muffled sounds he was making were an indication, he had been gagged too.

"You know what, I don't mind a blindfold," said Stiles.

"I thought you wouldn't," said the blond guy.

The cloth went round Stiles' eyes easily.

"I gotta say," said the blond guy's voice, "Was it Stiles?"

"Yeah," said Stiles.

"I'm Isaac," said the blond guy, "And Stiles, seriously, I'm impressed. I'd have kept quiet."

Stiles grumbled. The whole thing had been pretty anti-climactic in the end. "So you guys had a bet on who was Jackson?"

"No," said Isaac with a laugh, "We all knew which of you Jackson was. They took a bet on whether or not you'd admit it."

Stiles pulled a face, and was annoyed it would be hidden behind his blindfold. "Seriously? That whole thing was just a game? I thought I was going to die!"

"Nah," said Isaac, "Peter doesn't do games. He wanted to know what your character was."

"My character?" Stiles repeated, "Why would he care about that?"

"Well, he doesn't want cowards in his army, does he?" said Isaac.

"Oh," said Stiles, "Wait, what?"

The horse began to walk. Stiles' bound fingers clung to the saddle for fear of falling off backwards. He clung with his legs. Somewhere behind them, Jackson was complaining loudly into his cloth gag, and they were taken to the secret hide out of an insane bastard who thought he was King.

Stiles realised it could have been worse.

 **AN: Again, any feedback is craved muchly.**

 **Thank you kindly.**


	2. Chapter 2

Stiles did not manage to keep a track of where they were going. Not knowing where the horse would step next gave him a headache and made him feel queasy, and the constant swaying motion disoriented him; he couldn't tell what was part of a turn and what was just a step. He could hear Jackson making a bigger fuss not far behind him, which was probably reasonable enough given his positioning.

Stiles decided the best thing was to distract himself by talking.

"I just wanted to say, you know, seeing as how I'm not dying in the next few seconds, and it might be relevant, but that whole thing about the rent boy was totally a joke. Neither of us are rent boys. Or ever have been. I'm an indentured servant. My dad is a watchman, and I was going to be a watchman too, or maybe apprentice to someone in town, but me and my friend Scott, he's great, we heard that there was hidden treasure in this cave just out of town, but apparently that was Mr Whittemore's land, so when we were caught, they said we were trespassing. I mean, I got caught. I didn't give Scott away. Actually, I shouldn't have said that Scott was there. That was dumb! Forget I said it! He wasn't there! I made it up. It was just me."

"So you were given to Jackson as punishment for trespassing?" prompted Isaac.

"What?" said Stiles, confused momentarily, being unable to see who was talking, "Oh, yeah. Eight years as his servant. It's not really a punishment. I mean, it definitely feels like a punishment, but it's like, I'm supposed to be learning morals from him. I mean, I say supposed to because, well, you've met him."

"Yeah," said Isaac.

"It's like learning to draw from a blind man," said Stiles, "But it's cool, I figured I already have plenty of actual morals, so I'll just quietly spend my days making life slightly more annoying for him until he says I can go home. Not like, obviously more annoying, because that would end in actual physical pain, but just enough that he'll be slightly happier if I've left, you know? So, who are you guys?"

"Well, I'm Isaac," said Isaac.

"Yeah, I got that when you said 'I'm Isaac,'" said Stiles.

"And I'm a soldier loyal to the Hales."

"Right," said Stiles, "Look, Isaac, I don't want to seem ignorant here, but..."

"But you haven't heard of the Hales?" Isaac supplied.

"Well, yeah," said Stiles, "I mean no. I mean... I hadn't heard of the Hales before like five minutes ago."

"They are the rightful Kings of this land," said Isaac.

Stiles frowned, because he knew that wasn't right. "Yeah, about that..."

Isaac interrupted, as though he knew exactly what Stiles was thinking, "They were deposed twenty years ago in a bloody coup. There are only a handful of Hales left, now, but Peter is determined to take back what is his. He waited for Laura, Derek and Cora to grow strong enough to fight, and he built up his army. Soon we will be a force to reckon with."

"Oh," said Stiles. "Yeah, I wasn't born twenty years ago."

"Nor was I," said Isaac, pleasantly, "Derek and Laura were little children, Cora a babe in arms."

Stiles hummed, thoughtfully. "And has kidnap been the family business since then?"

Isaac laughed, "Not at all. We have been forced to live through nefarious means sometimes, but mostly we hunt and fish and even farm, too."

"Right. And how come _you're_ here, Isaac?" Stiles asked.

"Me?" asked Isaac.

"Yeah, you," said Stiles, "If you weren't even alive when the Hales were Kings, why do you fight for them?"

"I, uh, I guess I ran away," said Isaac.

"Ran away from what?" asked Stiles.

"Home," said Isaac, "My dad. He was... he wasn't very nice, so I left and Derek found me and invited me to stay with them. He said I didn't have to fight, but... I don't know, in comparison to how I was treated before, I just kind of, wanted to... " Isaac trailed off, but he had no doubt in his voice.

"How long ago was that?" Stiles asked, curiously, trying to look in the direction of Isaac's voice and not try hopelessly to figure out where this Derek was, because beautiful and with a soft spot for waifs and strays? Not fair.

"About a year, I think," said Isaac. "I mean, it was spring then and it's spring now, and we've had a winter in between, so... yeah. About a year."

"And you never thought about going home?" said Stiles, "In that year? Never thought this guy was a bit of a mad man and maybe you'd be better off finding a job or something?"

Isaac laughed, "Firstly, my life is a hell of a lot better now than it was. And secondly, that guy who you think is a bit of a mad man, can totally hear you right now."

"Oh," said Stiles, "That's good to know. Thanks. Great. Shit."

There were a number of laughs around him. And then Peter Hale's voice calling, "You're lucky my authority can survive the unthoughtout comments of a serving boy, Stiles. I hear the punishment for dissent under the current regime is quite harsh."

"Totally," said Stiles, "I mean, the only time my dad ever got really angry with me was when I said something about how unfair it was when they arrested old Mrs Wilker for some letter her husband wrote. Not him, obviously, but the royal guard. He kind of ordered me to stay out of it. He got really upset, actually, I mean he never orders me to do stuff. So, I kind of made a point of recording all the arrests after that, but I never let anyone find out. Until I got lumbered with Jackson. He's a bit of a time stealer."

Jackson grumbled something that sounded remarkably like a threat through his gag, and Stiles realised he probably should be nicer to Jackson if neither of them were actually going to die.  
"I mean, he uses a lot of his time to teach me morals," Stiles corrected, then realised, from the laughter around him, that he probably sounded pretty sarcastic, "I mean..."

"Can we gag him too?" interrupted a new voice.

"Hey!" Stiles snapped, "Rude!"

"Derek!" Peter admonished, "Our young guest may not know that you jest."

"I don't jest," said the voice of Derek, a sneer of derision, "We gagged the other one."

"Yes but this one's funny," said Peter, happily, "if we give him enough rope he'll hang himself."

"Still totally rude," Stiles mumbled, "I'm totally a wit, you know. I'm really funny and clever, people just can't see past the whole servant thing. But that's OK, I guess. All great artists were unappreciated in their own life times."

"See?" Peter replied, "He just told us we'd find him funnier if he were dead. He's charming."

"I think you slightly misinterpreted my words there, jumped to some massive conclusions that weren't there," said Stiles, over more laughing.

"I think Derek needs a servant," Peter said conversationally, "he doesn't seem able to shave himself. Maybe young Stiles will do him some good."

"Yeah, sure," said Stiles, with a shrug, "I'm ok with slightly annoying someone else until they want rid of me."

But his words were undercut by a growling sound.

"Derek!" said Peter, an obvious warning in his voice.

"Uh," said Stiles, massively uncomfortable, and really hoping they were passing some angry dog. But he doubted it.

"Enough," snapped Peter, "Stiles, Mr Whittemore, welcome to your home for the next few weeks."

Hesitantly, Stiles lifted his bound hands to his blindfold, and when no one stopped him, he pushed the cloth away from his eyes.

They had arrived in a wooded grove, green and lush and filled with great tall plants, trees, and bushes and dotted with simple canvas tents. It looked pleasant enough, but damningly temporary.

"Seriously, you've stayed here for twenty years?"

"Of course not," said Peter, patting his horse, "Until a few years ago, we lived in a castle in the far west of the Kingdom, but now we have begun our campaign to regain our throne and needs must. Are you sure you don't want him Derek?"

Derek growled, a lesser copy of his previous one, and turned his horse in another direction.

Peter smiled, "Well, more for me, then. Boyd, please secure young Master Whittemore in the dungeon, and Isaac, please take young Stiles to my tent."

"You have a dungeon?" said Stiles, slightly awed.

"Well it's more of a cage, really," said Peter, his grin growing wider, "Dungeon makes it sound more foreboding. Don't worry he'll be warm enough, and we have an interest in keeping him healthy."

"Er, OK..." said Stiles. Then his brain caught up with the rest of Peter's sentence. "Wait, what?"

Peter had moved on, "I will join you in a few moments, Stiles, but I must speak to my captains about our new arrivals and take their security reports."

"Wait, your tent?" said Stiles, then added hopefully, "So, am I _your_ servant now?"

"If you like," said Peter, somehow letting his teeth show. "Though your tasks won't be limited to those traditionally expected of a servant."

Stiles shivered. Soldiers were disbanding, wherever they were going, Isaac approached him, and the black guy, Boyd, was leading Jackson, still hanging over his horse, off to his temporary home, "Uh, is this like... should I be..."

"Fine, I'll take him."

Derek had returned, almost at a canter. He rode forward and took the reins of Stiles' horse from Isaac.

"Are you sure, nephew?" said Peter, with a small smile, "I'm certain that I would find plenty of uses for him. I did not mean to twist your arm."

"Yes you did," said Derek.

"Uh," interrupted Stiles, "I don't think I fully understood this conversation."

"No," said Derek, "Come on."

"I don't really have much choice right now," said Stiles, as his horse was led further from the group, the blindfold still looped around his head and his hands still bound.

Derek merely grunted.

He rode, and pulled Stiles' horse, to a tent that looked much like the others and gestured towards it lazily.

"This is mine. You'll sleep here until you go home," Derek said.

"Er, OK," said Stiles.

"You don't touch anything," said Derek, firmly.

"Ok," said Stiles.

"And you don't talk."

"That's a bit… um, I mean, I can try?"

Derek gave him a level stare that did not bode well for the future of Stiles' continued existence, "Go in, get some rest," Derek instructed.

"Uh, Ok," said Stiles, "But could you, uh, you know…"

He shook his bound hands, and mimed losing his balance, nearly losing his balance in the process. Derek repeated the stare that Stiles was just going to hope was his face and not specially designed to show Stiles how short his life was going to be.

"Uh," said Stiles again.

Derek gracefully dropped from his horse to his feet. Stiles tried to pretend he wasn't massively jealous of that skill, and hoped he wasn't going to make himself look too ridiculous when he tried himself. In three long strides, Derek was next to Stiles.

"Swing your leg over," he instructed.

Stiles bit his lip and tried to cling to the saddle and swing his leg at the same time.

"No like that!" Derek growled, "No just… let go of the…"

Stiles let go of the saddle, tried to swing his leg, and nearly fell off. "Nope," he said, "not happening. Can you… uh…"

"Oh for…" Derek grumbled, and grabbed the crook of Stiles arm and tugged. Stiles fell with a squawk into Derek's arms, one foot getting trapped on the saddle. From an awkward sideways position on Derek's chest, he saw Derek roll his eyes, and tug again, this time pulling Stiles away from the saddle.

"You know," said Stiles, conversationally, "It might have been easier just to untie my hands. Or something."

Derek glowered at him, and practically threw him to his feet. "Tent," he said, "Now."

"But… my hands…" said Stiles, looking at his hands, then back up at Derek, in what he hoped was an endearing manner.

"Are fine just the way they are," said Derek. "Once you've proven you're not here to kill anyone then I'll untie you."

Stiles' mouth dropped open, "Dude! You guys kidnapped me!"

Derek shrugged, "Doesn't mean you aren't dangerous," he said.

"No, but it means I'm probably not here to kill anyone!"

"Just… get in the tent," said Derek.

"And do what?" said Stiles.

"Wait," said Derek, shoving Stiles towards the tent. He climbed back onto his horse. "I'll have someone bring you some supper later. Do not leave the tent."

"Where are you going?" Stiles called after him.

"None of your business," said Derek, and he rode off.

Stiles gaped after him for a moment, then shouted, "That's so rude!"

A passing soldier on horseback laughed at him. Otherwise he got no answer.

…xxx…xxx…

It took Stiles quite a while to get the tent open. It had been laced closed, which proved a massive challenge to undo with hands tied together, and once he'd succeeded he made the decision that there was no point trying to close it again. He let the edges flap in the breeze, and let the moving slivers of light show him his temporary home.

He decided to look around all of Derek's things. Because Derek had ordered him not to, and he was quite happy to slightly annoy Derek. He'd basically promised to be slightly annoying to Derek for as long as they were at the camp, already, and it would be dishonest not to live up to the agreement.

Derek's tent was disappointingly sparse. Stiles guessed that told him enough about Derek's personality, and Stiles soon got bored of looking at canvas and the old dirty shirt. He slumped onto the thing that, if was feeling generous, might be called a bed, and sighed. He blew fidgeted for a while, then turned onto his side. Then the other side. Then he stretched out across the sheets as much as his bound arms would allow. Then felt something underneath one of the sheets.

Stiles was curious.

He pulled up the sheet and pulled out a small cloth bag. Inside that he found a book.

It had obviously once been beautiful, leather bound with gold leaf edgings and writing, but it had been worn by time, and blackened with soot, like someone had dropped it next to a fire. The title was obscured on the spine, so Stiles opened it to check inside.

"What did I tell you?" growled an angry voice.

"Uh," said Stiles, freezing but not jumping at the return of Derek.

"You do not touch anything!" he said.

"Well, you could, like, let me go home," said Stiles, "Then I wouldn't be able to touch anything. Because I'd be somewhere else."

"You think you can return without Jackson?" snapped Derek, "I should just have let Peter have you."

Stiles did not like the sound of that one bit. "Uh, sorry?" he said, "I just… get bored?"

Derek growled again. He snatched the book from Stiles' hand, and took the bag, putting it over his own shoulder. "If I can't trust you, you can go in the cage with Jackson."

"No!" Stiles protested, "I'm sorry! Please!"

But Derek ignored him. He grabbed Stiles arm and pulled him back out of the tent.

"Derek, I'm sorry," Stiles pleaded, trying his best to sound reasonable. "He'll beat me up, do I really deserve that for looking at a book?"

Derek didn't answer, just pulled him out into the open where a few men were practicing fighting.

"Derek," Stiles tried again, trying to make eye contact, even though Derek was only showing him the roughly unshaven cheek, "I can be a servant, just give me stuff to do! I bet you've never had to do nothing all day!"

Derek grunted.

"OK, so it wasn't all day, but you'd told me it was going to be!" Stiles protested, "Come on! Don't put me in with Jackson! He's the worst!"

"He's not," said Derek.

Peter accosted them, cheerfully falling into step beside them.

"Bored already, Derek?" he said.

"You can't trust him," said Derek, "I'm locking him up."

Peter looked Stiles up and down appraisingly. "What did he do?"

Derek growled.

"You know, most people don't growl," said Stiles, "Is it like a condition or…?"

"Are we playing twenty questions?" Peter asked, happily ignoring Stiles, "Am I meant to guess? Alright, did he steal from you?"

"No," said Derek. "Drop it."

"Ah, did he try to run away from us? Try to hurt you maybe?"

"No," replied Derek, "I said drop it."

"Hmm," said Peter, "Because I am more than happy to take him off your hands Derek. Really. He is young, pretty and vivacious, and almost definitely a virgin. He would really help with my tedium."

"Uh…" said Stiles, because his virginity was totally not up for discussion.

Derek stopped walking. "He's not trust worthy."

"I don't need to trust him," said Peter.

Derek growled.

"He is right, Derek," said Peter, "You do growl a lot. You know that sort of thing scares the humans, doesn't it, Stiles?"

Stiles' breath caught, "Uh…" he managed.

"I'm locking him up with the other one," grumbled Derek.

"Then I will take him," said Peter.

Derek glared. Stiles did not talk, because he was not sure any of the options were good ones.

"Fine," said Derek, "I'll tie him up properly."

"Whatever turns you on," said Peter, pleasantly, and smiled.

"Uh…" said Stiles.

But Derek was already tugging him back the way they came.


End file.
